65

The Royal Canadian Navy’s self-designated “Destroyer Flotilla” considered themselves elite, and no career officers served on corvettes or minesweepers. These destroyer officers unbuttoned the top button of their jackets as a symbol, and they regarded the other officers as a necessary pain in the neck. It might have been inevitable that the others responded by flouting their differences. Some men sported gold earrings in one ear, like corsairs. They painted flamboyant (and sometimes tasteless) cartoons on their gun shields. They accented toughness, which was good—at the expense of discipline, which was not so good. They were individualists in a war that demanded more and more coordination. They exasperated the Royal Navy and upset the Americans. Without them, the Battle of the Atlantic would have been lost, but they posed serious problems to the new commander in chief.

This, then, was the world into which Patrick MacQueen was now stepping. At headquarters in Halifax, the road ahead had been paved with British accents and Royal Naval attitudes. Patrick already had what they termed a “mid-Atlantic” accent, and he had learned to tuck his handkerchief up his sleeve. The captain waiting for him had an American naval sword hanging on the bulkhead of his cabin, sported a red beard, and intended to add to his ship’s laurels by winning the war single-handedly.

Destiny must have her little laughs. They were two proud men of differing age and rank, sharing the same goal, but with very different ideas about how to achieve it. MacQueen had been schooled in the tradition that the crown covers everything; the captain’s restless faith in the frontier knew no bounds, and he was a true revolutionary of the Yankee pattern.

On the gun shield of this ship of such noble name, much to the irreverent delight of the captain, was painted the symbol of Donald Duck. That was the first blow to offend young MacQueen’s feudal sensibilities. This captain was also a sensitive and highly strung man who wrote lyrically about the battles in which he had engaged.

Patrick MacQueen was escorted to the captain’s cabin by a relieved and chattering duty officer of his own age. This ship’s company had been gradually assembled all the way from Galveston to Pictou, and it was now finally complete. MacQueen had properly saluted the quarterdeck, and his duffle bag was being stowed in a small cabin that he would share with the duty officer, Sub-lieutenant Rockwood.

The captain was hunched over a small table facing the door and flanked by a willowy officer wearing the uniform of a lieutenant RCNVR with the wavy stripes. Sunlight filtered through a porthole, or scuttle, above the captain’s head and reflected off his thinning reddish hair. One hand was tugging at the point of his short beard, and he seemed to be emitting short barks from a wide but unsmiling mouth. The rationing of the ship was being completed, and there was a barge being unloaded on the starboard side.

“Sub-lieutenant MacQueen, sir,” said the duty officer. He left and closed the door.

The captain raised his haggard face, and the other officer diverted his eyes with what seemed to be a pout. They saw before them a spruce and well-proportioned young man with refined features and dark brown hair. MacQueen’s good looks had never been an asset; they had only caused him trouble.

“Welcome aboard, MacQueen,” said the captain. His smile was engaging, but he had a cadaverous face, and his eyes were piercing. He nervously offered his hand. “This is our number one, Lieutenant Broadly,” he said. Number one was the term for the executive officer or second-in-command. Lieutenant Broadly smiled vaguely, glanced up and down at MacQueen’s well-pressed uniform, then looked out of the porthole. The cabin was obsessively neat, and the Annapolis sword was suspended over the captain’s head.

This man is intelligent, thought MacQueen. Not a universal virtue in naval officers…but something behind those eyes is off the rails.

“I am honoured to be here, sir,” said MacQueen. The two other officers exchanged the barest of glances. That was hardly corvette talk, but Patrick was not a chameleon.

“I see,” said the captain, emitting another little series of staccato barks that Patrick decided must be laughter. “Well, we’re pleased to have you. Workups start tomorrow and we drive ’em hard. In seven days one of your headquarters blokes will come here to put us through the paces, then we’re off. I want a good performance.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Patrick MacQueen.

“Do better than that,” said the captain. He barked again, like the sound of a lonely Spandau machine gun through the mists of the Argonne Forest. This man has a death wish, thought Patrick in an instant of revelation. He was familiar with the symptoms, sharing them to a lesser degree.

The thought of death did not dismay Patrick, but sometimes he worried a little about the preliminaries.